


Dans Le Feu

by AuroraExecution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Classical References, Fire, M/M, Passion, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study of Enjolras, Grantaire, and the fire they share.</p><p> </p><p>I wrote this in April 2012, and had to do some research by digging up a French version of the novel.  In this way, I learned that Grantaire refers to himself as "farouche" when he volunteers for the Barriere du Maine, and also that Enjolras and Grantaire both use "tu" (familiar "you") rather than "vous" (formal "you") for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dans Le Feu

**Author's Note:**

> "Dans Le Feu" is French for "In the Fire".

Grantaire was always surprised when Enjolras touched him.  Not only the intimacies they shared, the embraces and kisses, but even Enjolras’s hand on his arm, or the brushing of their fingers as they both reached for a paper.  Regardless, Grantaire never understood why Enjolras would bother to touch an unworthy man full of vices.  After all, a creature made of light should simply move through a creature made of flesh. 

It was not that Grantaire held a low opinion of himself—on the contrary, he often claimed he was a great lover of women, if he only sought.  But women, to Grantaire, were an amusement, and occasionally a respite; Enjolras was far more.  He could always find a woman, though often she might be from the Maisons and only with him to make money.  Enjolras, conversely, was unique in all the world, eternal and blindingly beautiful.  For Grantaire, his love for Enjolras was something precious and pure, held high above all else and separated from his dalliances with women. 

From the very earliest, Grantaire attended the meetings each week to seek out his Apollo.  He worshipped at the feet of an oblivious god, and reveled in the worship despite being ignored.  To Grantaire, Enjolras was precious, perfect—in the eyes of the frog, the sky can do no wrong.  He loved Enjolras, even without ever touching the object of his affections.  And although Grantaire fancied himself a bit of a favorite of women, compared to Enjolras he thought himself nothing.  A skeptic who was drawn to belief, Grantaire was very much a paradox. 

So it surprised Grantaire when Enjolras came to him one day and kissed him.  The days of the following affair were torrid and far too short, but in his memories Grantaire could only recall the sweetness.  They were passionate together, if nothing else, in all senses, but Grantaire should have guessed that Enjolras was a passionate person toward anything to which he cared to devote his efforts.  Everything that passed between them was blazingly beautiful and memorable and full of passion—their shared kisses were fevered, their embraces blistering, and their arguments fiery. 

In the burning days when they were together, golden Orestes never once flinched or frowned or looked away when he touched his dark Pylades.  Grantaire could not understand it, but Enjolras was the transcendent sort of creature who did not see in the monochrome of beauty and ugliness.  To others, the pair of them seemed mismatched, a gargoyle and an angel consorting on the eaves of a cathedral, but Enjolras was possibly the only person who did not find Grantaire repulsive.  What Enjolras saw was passion and fire and, for brief moments, Grantaire’s ability to believe in something, and he found it beautiful. 

But the flames burned themselves away.  Enjolras believed in improvement, wanted better things for France and Grantaire alike.  Grantaire could only believe in one thing, and it was not France or himself or the idea that one could better one’s life.  After arguments, Grantaire consistently returned drunk, while Enjolras found himself away more often on business for Les Amis.  The arguments grew more frequent.  One day, there was nothing left to burn. 

In the entire time they spent together, warm in the sunlight in Enjolras’s clean apartment or sharing the candles on the small table in Grantaire’s rooms, there was never a time when Grantaire was not astounded and honored and slightly moved that Enjolras was there with him, touching him of his own free will.  And thus, when the fire died and the ashes crumbled away, and Enjolras avoided contact of any sort, Grantaire comforted himself with the thought that he was not surprised.  It was, after all, only what he had always expected. 

Afterward, Grantaire continued attending the meetings to see his Apollo.  His adoration was such that the ordeal of their short affair made no difference, except perhaps to give him a glimmer of understanding, and possibly have some effect on how much he drank and rambled.  He laid no blame on Enjolras because, beyond the overwhelming sense of sorrow, he treasured his time with Enjolras, as much as he treasured his love for Enjolras. 

Many days passed, full of wine and absinthe and Enjolras’s voice in the background.  Grantaire slipped further into cynicism and drunkenness.  One day he awoke to death, to soldiers with guns pointed at Enjolras, who stood against the wall there, so very beautiful and proud.  The drink had all but been slept away, and Grantaire moved to his idol.  “Will you permit it?” he asked Enjolras, who suddenly smiled and took his hand. 

Grantaire was always surprised when Enjolras touched him, but this time it simply felt right. 


End file.
